


flowers bloom with no regret;

by stngds



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Found Family, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Female Character, Relationship Study, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 18:19:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16075574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stngds/pseuds/stngds
Summary: So Hawke does what she knows best doing. She steels herself, relaxes her fists, and grins a lopsided smile.





	flowers bloom with no regret;

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I started working on two and a half years ago, actually - and it was supposed to be, initially, a Pacific Rim! AU. Obviously, things changed, and after festering in my laptop for such a long time, it begged me to keep writing and turn it into a character study for my first gameplay (the clueless and full of mistakes one) and my first Hawke.  
> 

All the people in the town call her Hawke – her and her only the embodiment of everything else that the other members of her family have only separately: the stubbornness of her mother, the wits of her father, the fierceness of her brother and the kindness of her sister. She understands it is supposed to be some kind of compliment, some kind of title that only she has the skills to unlock, but instead it makes her feel weirdly alienated from everyone else, from the common names everyone else gets called by. She yearns for it sometimes, for the intimacy it comes with having someone calling her by her given name, the effort someone would have to put in to even learn it.

But she likes being called Hawke as well, the easiness with which vowels roll off the tongue, the way she owns the name through her quick eyes, her fastness in combat, when she spars with her siblings, when she has to fight for the things her father asks her to bring from the market, and so many others wish for as well. She likes that each villager booms with pride when calling out to her – _there’s our Hawke!_ \- and when this happens she likes to imagine that she is no girl, no daughter, no sister, nothing and all, and just that: Hawke.

She doesn’t particularly like any member of her family though. She has siblings that she didn’t wish for, darting past her laughing about things that will always remain secret from their older sister, always with linked hands, always making a group of only two where she won’t be allowed. Her mother will always find a fault laying in her behavior, no matter how much she tries, and after a while, she doesn’t even do that anymore, instead growing more and more Hawke-like: fierce and reckless and unapologetically herself. For that, her father seemed to hold the whole blame she refused to take, and she saw him cowering with each passing year, with each news of a world he left behind and never talked about, with each evening where she’d end up escorted home by already bored guards. But she is her father’s daughter, and even rebelling is done with utmost perfection, running havoc.

She still somehow cares about each and every one of them, the only family she has, the only connection she knows how to hold – and she takes little solace in the minutes when she is alone, on battered paths long after everyone else fell asleep, at the edge of the village, almost tasting what’s behind this imposed limit on her life, the scenery peaceful and calm and safe in ways she never really learnt to be. The little good manners her mother tried to inflict on her, learnt by heart but never practiced, are buried under the years spent on farm, and Hawke likes it better like this: no more strain on her life and behavior. Potential is a heavy, heavy burden – and she’s oddly relieved and sad when her mother stops caring, at all, about her oldest daughter fulfilling any of her expectations. She senses the shift in their dynamic, as the focus turns to the twins: Bethany’s magic that risks burning everything to the ground, literally; Carver’s wish to fight, if only to help his sister in destroying everything in sight.

Her siblings are a force to be reckoned, especially when they work together, but she can’t quite hold any bitterness towards them. They are young and don’t know any better, their universes somehow stopping at Leandra’s smile, at Malcolm’s nod of approval. Hawke’s heart constricts in her chest, and when Bethany lays her hand over hers every time she feels as such, Carver’s arrival with stolen pie… She knows, she knows there’s something stronger than magic at work, a link as old as their name between the Hawke’s twins. But Hawke doesn’t like having her mind read, even with no ill intention, even by her sister, so at the back of her thoughts, whenever she’s around magic, she keeps playing the pounding of her heart, louder and louder, deafening, something to grasp at; her one defense against something she can’t fight with nails and fists.

And one summer day their father receives a letter. Hawke is old enough to see the distress on her mother’s face, and she is the first one back at home, watching Malcolm packing, everything done in less than an hour. Carver runs into her from the back, now taller than her, slenderer and a true sight for the village’s girls, true pride for their parents. Bethany follows, though she is the kind hand wrapped around her arm to steady her back on her feet, and they all three wait in the doorway for an explanation, for something to make actual sense in how fast their family dissolves. Because, if there is something holding together the Hawkes, that something is Malcolm. He turns towards them, a hand white around his staff.

“You must always make only mistakes you know you can live with,” he sighs. It’s the first time she starts to realize how her parents are getting old, Leandra defeated under knowledge she will never share with her children; Malcolm, although sporting a smile, having it too wrinkled, too dark. Then, she snaps out of it: shoving her fingers in her siblings’ side, pushing them away, following them, allowing secrets to keep festering between the two she still allows authority to.

Her mother’s sobs start way before the night falls, to cover Malcolm leave. Her father takes each of his family member to his side, hushes calm and hope in their ears, cheekily jokes to steal a smile from Carver, a giggle from Bethany. When his oldest’s turn comes, it seems like he ran out of reassurance.

“Dearest…” he tries, but then he feels the wrong in that tender word associated with his rowdy girl, and clears his throat. “I don’t know for how long I’ll be gone, or if I will ever return. You’re the only one they” and here he pauses, both their glances moving towards the kitchen, where Leandra is filling up the twin’s cups with warmed milk, “really have to help them now. You need to support Carver, learn to match his temper. You need to protect and hide Bethany, she’s still so young. And don’t be so harsh on your mother.”

Hawke wonders, dizzy, if he told them not to make all these jobs for her more difficult than they have to be, but she highly doubts it. In the other room, her family calmed down to a point – and now it’s on her to keep the semblance of put-together for as long as necessary. Malcolm starts searching for something in his pouch, shoving a package in her hands. Puzzled, she throws the cloth aside, revealing two daggers: old by the use in the handle, but well taken care of.

“You’ll need them,” is all her father says, patting her shoulder, straightening his back, grabbing his staff and cloak. He says no other goodbyes to his family.

And so, the only other one who might have stolen the tile of Hawke from her, disappears. She doesn’t cry until, two months later, she catches her first rabbit with her new weapons.

*******

“Stop pushing me!” Hawke screams, shoving her elbow back in the face of an older woman who pinched her waist to get her to cower down, so she can better see the goods sold by the traveling merchant. She is bitter at Lothering – failing miserably at giving the people the resources they need, leaving them fighting over every new merchant cart that crosses their gates. But her calf is still hurting, the result of a fireball courtesy of Bethany, and her brother had been complaining about his leather boots falling apart for months now. If she can get some honey, she’d consider herself the strongest and most resourceful villager as well.

When the merchant, finally noticing her flailing arms, takes her money and makes a gesture for her to take what she needs, she moves fast. She might step on the feet of a curious child or grab a piece of cloth from the hands of a soon-to-be bride, but she paid for all, and so she takes. She sighs in relief when, finally, and with arms full, she exits the crowd. Her family is waiting at the crossroad, and she passes her purchases around in silence. Cloth for a new vest for Bethany and a lyrium crystal to help her figure out the magic thing easier. She throws the boots to Carver’s face, laughing when he almost fails to catch them. She’s more careful with the honey jar, though she is tempted to test her mother too, and when Leandra’s open palm still waits in front of her, she sighs and passes the last of her coins, too. At the end of all the struggle, there’s nothing for her.

Before she can start moving again, Carver’s hand is around her shoulder, a quiet _come with me_ separating her from her duties. She frowns, shakes off his painful grip, slapping a palm against the back of his neck for being such a brute with her.

“Like you’re any lady,” he murmurs in response, massaging the spot. Hawke crosses her arms, raising a brow at him.

“What do you want?”

“I’m going to war.”

“Like hell you are,” she puffs, immediately afterwards laughing, hand going instinctually at her back, where she keeps her daggers. It’s unlike Carver to joke about something like fighting, which he takes so very seriously, which is why when he repeats the affirmation, slower this time, more confident, her smile falls.

“There’s word of the Blight starting again. If that’s the case, what’s the next thing after the Wilds?”

_Lothering._

The two siblings look at each other, assessing the situation. “Mother won’t let you,” Hawke says in the end, certain she will now need to go fight in a war she is not sure she believes in.

“Mother wants a hero as a child,” he snaps, pride in his voice. Because finally, she is not the one that fits the criteria, she is not the one that can take this from him. There’s nothing more to be said on the matter, there’s nothing she can do – and she is painfully aware of the fact that he’s still so young, he’s still a child chasing things that he can’t touch, and oh, doesn’t he know those are the things that are least worth any hassle? Glory can’t fill a stomach and war can’t fill a heart.

But Hawke bits her tongue, nods at Carver, goes home and spends hours polishing his armor, washing his shirts, making his favorite meals. If, by the time he’s back from celebrating with his friends in the village’s tavern, he notices her efforts, he says nothing to her face.

Only late at night, when it’s been hours of trying to fall asleep, does she feel her sibling hovering around her door, sounds muffled through the door. She waits until they’re in, Carver’s body draped over her own, heavy and muscled and _very heavy._ Bethany laughs, but at least she has the delicacy to sit in the chair, rather than on her older sister.

 “What,” Hawke grunts, throwing her elbow in Carver’s stomach, grinning when he groans, “do you want?”

She can feel Carver’s lips resting over her cheek, his hand squeezing at her own. Bethany rolls her feather between her fingers, anxious and silent. Hawke hates this; how she can’t help but love them in these moments when she can understand them.

“He’ll probably be scared,” Bethany says, taking Hawke’s other hand in hers, at the same time when Carver says “Like hell I will.”

Hawke frowns through the dark, seeing only the outlines of their bodies; and oh, how easier it is to talk like this, when no expression is certain, when no vulnerability fully shows.

“But they’ll be heroes, Hawke!” She can hear the tilt in Bethany’s voice and she’s sure her eyes glint with enthusiasm, the way they always did since they were very young. She squeezes Carver’s hand, warning for the future, a request for promises that she knows she can’t actually ask him to make.

“Make sure your surname doesn’t catch popularity, you hear me?” Hawke does her best to keep her tone easy, joking. She relaxes when Carver snorts in her shoulder, when Bethany finally plops in the bed next to them, over them. When Leandra comes checking out on them the next morning, he finds them all limbs-tangled, somehow fitting in a too small bed, Hawke’s arms around Bethany to keep her from falling from the bed, Carver’s leg thrown over the wall so that he won’t turn his sisters’ bodies numb from the weight.

*******

Being stationed so close to home means that, in-between training sessions, Carver drops by from time to time, filled with stories of far-fetched people, all gathered together under one common purpose; of joking princes, serious tacticians, somber mages. His tone is light, his words hopeful – but Hawke is not blind, and she knows whatever is coming is way bigger than they all can understand. Carver is still raw, there hasn’t been a battle yet and the safety he feels in their number is easy to get lost in. It’s in her blood to worry about those she shares it with, though she keeps it all for herself. Carver is, for the first time, happy – not walking in the shadow of another Hawke, and Bethany and Leandra seem excited at the prospect, finally. So Hawke allows them this, and worries on her own. She trains in the night, she stops warrior caravans, gifting them food and drinks in exchange for more and more information. There’s nothing else she can do, not that she knows of, so she keeps sending her brother off, and she keeps hoping he’s the one who’s right.

But the alarm in Lothering goes off late, way too late, in the form of running, desperate soldiers. For many villages, there’s no time to gather their things. For those who think there is, there are no more hours in their lives. The Hawkes are no exceptions; the moment Leandra moves to shove her most prized possessions in a bag, her eldest drags at her arm, shoves her out the door, pushes her to run as hard as she can, to catch up with Bethany, already setting _things_ on fire.

Hawke has no time to panic over the damn creatures, or the lack of humans around them. She stabs, jumps away, moves again to kill. There’s no other way but through. They meet Carver on the way, and the twins immediately fall into a rhythm, back on back, fighting with almost a mad enthusiasm, even as Hawke already feels herself tiring.

She expected panicked villagers, a lost soldier – but the weird duo was not on her list. It’s almost like two different worlds collide, seeing this strong woman lending a shoulder to a hurt man, wearing the very distinct uniforms of their loyalties. Seeing them doubting her sister even when she’s desperate is like a punch to the stomach, and she wonders if magic is so hated between their ranks because they fight creatures that would have not existed in the first place if magic didn’t, either.

Hawke barks at them; hurt and needy and having to watch her world go down. She passes the market where she elbowed older ladies in her youth, blood prints and debris in the place of the familiar, colorful stalls. She passes the place where she got into her first fight with her siblings, just outside the city, for the stupidest reason of all: who gets the last piece of apple pie. She goes further than she ever went, and keeps going, frowning at their new companions, but glad for their stead-fast presence, for their fierceness and bravery. It’s been a while now since Hawke felt brave, and it’s nice to know that’s not the case for everyone.

They hack at each wave of enemy, movement becoming mechanic, vicious in the fierceness with which they want to protect. In the same way her own siblings fell together in a fight, she does with Aveline. Hawke runs, feels the wind biting at her skin, the smell of fire in her hair. She wills her legs to keep going, even if her heart is booming in her chest with fear of what awaits her, even if all she wants to do is stop.

The ogre takes stumbling step by stumbling step, until it eventually marches into an opening. There are more darkspawns accompanying this monstrous appearance than they fought until now – and maybe this adrenaline rush is what pushes her sister to march, or maybe the poignant smell of fear raising off her companions, or maybe just the damn wish to have something on her own, maybe just to show that magic is useful in many ways in this battle that they’re fighting. Hawke will never know, and will always continue to curse the second when she takes on the creature all on her own.

It’s a lag of a few seconds, before she moves forward as well, followed by the others. She runs faster now, desperate and mad, unable to even begin to comprehend the true damage, her brain electrified, swimming in too many of her thoughts, too many sounding like the name of her dearest family. She has no idea where weak points are, so she stabs everywhere, in a frenzy, throat raw by the time it falls, eyes burning with unshed tears, bleeding palms and knuckles and cracked skin ignored.

It seems like forever before the world moves again, following the echo of the ogre’s fall, in which Hawke only feels numb. Her mother is in a really not that different state, but Hawke stays like that, unmoving and unknowing. When Carver reaches the body of his twin, his leg limping, everything finally unfreezes. Leandra runs to her children, crying out their names, gathering Bethany in her own arms, resting her head in her lap. Her hands desperately try disentangling her hair; she chides her for not opening her eyes.

Hawke sits next to Carver, hooking her arm around his waist, allowing him to rest his weight on her. He closes his eyes with a sigh, like it’s painful to feel her touch. She says nothing, does not mourn, does not complain this situation, instead tightening her hold around her brother. They only see her dead, but if rumors are to be trusted, Carver has not only seen her die, but also felt it happening, a part of him now gone as well.

Hawke hooks her other arm around him, giving him a hug, and pretends to not hear his stammer when he says her name, his sobs; pretends she doesn’t feel his shudder when their mother screams. Hawke gathers him closer and they stay like that until Leandra calms.

“My dear daughter,” she calls in her pain, and Hawke wonders what that makes her. Sir Wesley’s offer is not unkind and it brings a little peace for all of them. Aveline lets her hand rest on Carver’s shoulder, complimenting a work well done. If anything, Bethany died a hero, for those she loved. Hawke wants to throw up. Is your own life really a worthy sacrifice, even if it’s your own blood?

Leandra whips her head around at her eldest, fierce and stricken with grief, wild and her face open. She cradles Bethany’s body at her chest, with a love so bright it hurts to look at. Like this, Hawke understands why Malcolm might have fallen in love with her all this time ago, why over and over again he has taken Leandra’s side, has made her the queen of his decisions.

But Leandra speaks, and her words bite.

“It’s all your fault.”

Hawke’s arms fall from around her brother, her eyes turning moist, burying her nails in her flesh in blind frustration. Carver sits back, no words to defend his sister, and rationally she knows that their pain is raw and fresh, but the fact that they don’t think she shares it hurts more than she’d like to admit. For a mere second, enough for one Aveline Vallen to catch the change, she lets it visible on her face. But Leandra is imprinting Bethany’s face in her memory, Carver looking off into the distance, where safety is supposed to be.

So Hawke does what she knows best doing. She steels herself, relaxes her fists, and grins a lopsided smile.

“Should we get moving, before we all end up in a similar way? Or will stalling be my fault, as well?”

She looks pointedly at her family, the silence falling threateningly between them, because that means the monsters are done in the village, and they’re the next best thing. Sir Wesley coughs, cradling his hurt arm at his chest, and everyone turns their head on his pale face, his purple veins visible even from a distance.

“Oh, my. He already looks quite dead.”

There are stories you hear as a child and know for sure they cannot be true, and then there are those that are so terrifying exactly because the truths outnumber the lies. The legends about the Witch of the Wilds fall in the second category, and seeing this woman, oozing of power, laughing in the face of defeat, is overwhelming. Hawke steps forward, ready to make a deal with demons if it gets them out of this situation, if it makes the waters safe for how long it’ll take them to reach another place, at least whole.

The Witch of the Wilds doesn’t seem to be requesting that much. She’s cruel in her intelligence, mocking in her power. But, underneath all that, she holds some kind of respect for survivors, for effort. But, underneath all that, she’s human enough to know when even effort is not enough to hold a life together.

Aveline does not allow anyone to come close enough to her husband in these last moments, even with their best intention in mind. They’ve shared years and thoughts, visions and love. Wesley cradles her face for one last time, making sure that even if her hold on the sword trembles, it would not miss. This is the only request she has granted him so easily, so finally.

When the metal presses into the soft flesh of his stomach, Hawke feels like she’s floating, like the world is not real. They thinned their numbers by a third, and yet she does not avert her eyes from this death, willing herself to become as just and sure as the warrior girl before her, knowing her to be as shaken as she is.

The Witch takes them afterwards where they need to go, no unnecessary flash of magic spent. Not even once during their travels, not until they’ve reached a ship and sleep, not even when between people once again, does Hawke lets go of Aveline hand, even when it turns numb from the harsh clasping.

*******

“You did a good job,” is what Aveline tells her first, when they step on land again. Hawke shakes her head, thinks of her family that didn’t say a word to her during the voyage, and then she wants to slap herself because she at least still has them. So she chokes on her biting remark, and instead pats Aveline’s arm; keeps her distance because she’s in desperate need of a bath.

There are several other families of refugees waiting for entrance in the city – and a chance at life, in the end. Kirkwall may be one hellhole once you’re in, but at least is something more than darkspawn territory. Each person here has a story as painful as them, each person fought with all they had in them to make it somewhere that doesn’t reek of instant death. The despair with which some of the people are bargaining make it quite clear how small their own chance at getting in is.

But this is Kirkwall. For Hawker, Carver, Aveline it might be the wide unknown, but her mother would rather call it _home._ This is the place where she’s been raised, this is the place she can navigate, where she was made in the woman she is. Hawke only hopes once they’re in, she won’t suddenly start taking after her. Leandra straightens her back, moves to talk with the guards, invoking old names, ending things in a fight and with a bargain. Truly the Hawkes way.

She’s not used to the humid air of Kirkwall and the wideness of the sea, or the scorching of the sun, as they wait, for three days, for some kind of passage into the city. By the time her uncle comes, walking like he has a stick shoved up his ass, Hawke is red with sunburn, groggy and stinking. She was promised a noble line and all she’s getting is a drunkard, and she almost swears at Carver when the idiot brother of hers stops her from punching him in the face. They’re family; family doesn’t give up on each other so easily.

Gamlen sounds so bitter and so familiar, and looking at the two, with Carver at her side, is like looking into a mirror. She clasps his hand, if only to make sure he’s not quite yet wielding a sword to stab her in the back. She knows it’s hard to control how you feel, and the first initial reactions – but things are not supposed to go like this. They struggled so much, for so long already and there’s no chance of resting any time soon.

It makes it clear, in her head, finally, that she must be harder. She must harden against what the world decides to throw her way, because the world won’t wait for you to mourn, to take a break, to do anything but survive. It’s clear there’s no other way, so she takes the harsh path, because she has no other choice. She has her brother for now, even if he still barely talks to her, and she has Aveline, a new constant at her side. It has to be enough.

She picks Athenril simply because she’s a woman, and she trusts her just a tiny bit more. She takes most jobs that are handed out, anything to buy back the freedom another sold so easily. She does so with immense bitterness, hating her family for dragging each other from problem to problem, wishing she could severe ties, but finding herself unable to do so.

For a few weeks, she goes on her own, Carver intent on helping their grief-stricken mother accommodate herself with their new life, learning to manage the gap where Bethany used to be in their relationship. She allows her brother the time he needs to patch his heart up and tolerate her again. She allows her mother the retreat of old age, remembering a time when the two of them shared the same hair color. She allows Gamlen the drunken tantrums and inappropriate remarks. It’s what she needs to do, and there’s no one to understand the extent of effort it all takes.

Then, on a random day, Carver is at her side when she reads a note from Athenril telling her all about a new job; Carver is at her side when she fights, which makes things way easier. It’s been a while since they’ve been on the same side, and she takes what he’s willing to give, puts it aside and keeps it safe in her heart, untouchable, making it her strength.

They await, in an alley, for those who are going to pay them for the work. The sun is going down, and Hawke’s muscles ache under an ill-fitting armor. Carver sighs.

"A hundred ways to run, and we choose backward. Whatever you say, but chasing an old name isn't really starting over."

“It’s not me you have to say this to, brother. It is mother the one who’s obsessed with the failures of her brother and the fall of her family.”

“Mother is grieving.” She looks up at him, playing with her daggers between her hands, eyes narrowing at him.

“We all are, brother.” Her voice cracks without her wanting it to. She knows he doesn’t trust these words; after all, she’s been way too put together, she hasn’t lost it in any way similar to the rest of her family. He doesn’t see that by turning their grief in anger directed at her, she eases the process for them. She doesn’t want him to. Well, most of the time. It’d certainly make things easier in moments like this one.

The moment is broken by an admiring whistling, and around six men stepping in their way, the one who hired them their chief. Their words are condescending, and they laugh at their willingness to take onto their dirty work, and anyone’s for the matter. They throw slurs in their face, show off their weapons, trying to intimidate. But Hawke knows they can’t afford to anger Athenril. She knows they won’t kill them, or they would have already done it.

So she pushes at her brother’s shoulder, hissing in his ear to run for Athenril, ask for help and return afterwards. It takes her three shoves to get him moving, and by the time he disappears around the corner, one arm is around her shoulder again, hands pulling at her shirt and pants, and she freezes on the spot, unable to scream, unable to act, their touches burning, their leers biting. There are a few who take their turn, others who are more pleasured by just watching – and at the end of it all, they leave her naked and spent, laid on her clothes, throwing a cackling sack of coins on the ground next to her head, laughing about making good business.

It takes her a while to return back to her own body, the whole experience seen from somewhere outside of her own existence, from very far away. She pulls her clothes back on, she fumbles with her daggers until she cuts her finger, she cradles the coin pouch and tries to tell herself that it’s been worth it in the end. Carver is safe, the amount of money is triple what they’ve been promised and _she is fine._ She’s back on her own feet by the time the back-up comes to get her, and she sighs in relief when there’s no Carver in sight – because she can lie to these people, but she doesn’t think she could to her brother.

She walks through the entirety of Kirkwall before making her way back home. She stops at Aveline’s barracks, even while she is out on patrols, to wash away. She gets a disgusting drink in an unnamed bar. And when she can stall on the streets on her own no more, fear now more powerful, rising painfully in her throat, it is still late enough that no one else is up.

She hides the satchel of money away once she’s inside their house, not trusting her uncle around money, and her delusional mother even less. She crawls in the same bed as her brother, wincing as she curls into a ball, constantly ordering herself not to cry. And when the morning comes, with still no wink of sleep, Hawke gets up, moaning in pain, hurrying to get dressed and hide the purple marks blooming on her skin, ignoring any questioning stare, just pushing through.

**Author's Note:**

> I love this game so much. And I love trying to write a realistic Hawke - brimming with anger but always having it to stiffle, because she always had something else to do. I adored the times when dialogue choices would let you be bitter about it. Basically, I tried writing a very, very flawed humane Hawke.  
> Some changes have been made: I like Carver more than his twin, and this is why I decided to have him living instead, even if Hawke is a Rogue. It's my fic after all, I want to have fun with it, and I find completely fascinating the relationship he has with his sister.  
> I also think, in that year of paying back a debt, at the start of their criminal career, the Hawkes found themselves helpless at times.  
> Title is from Years&Years' "Hypnotised".  
> Thanks for reading, let's talk on [tumblr](http://teavious.tumblr.com/) !!!!


End file.
